My Nest Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

Whirled into an oval
standing
on its trailed tail,
head lost in mist

on a hurtling beach,
a snail's whorl of stone

in that dangling tree
in a leaf-gulping storm,

my pine trimmed
into a hairless rod

on a mountain
of me, an ant crawling

out of a firestorm
to the edge
of a volcano's mouth
still rumbling.

(ii)

Under the rushing
rail wheels of time
grinding
to a screeching halt,
where there's no quay.

I dock into me,
my only harbor, when rails
are spun and thrusted

at me by men
in the same nest
down a gorge.

Down the feet
of a taller mountain
carrying my nest
in shredded reeds to stitch
and weave

into a fort, an ant hole
of me widened
into a viaduct, into which I crawl
into a seat in life's train.

(iii)

Beyond marshes and forests
I weave a nest
with dry flailed
leaves and stalks

and vines from gardens
grown by a feather,

I wear an eagle's wing
of an armor
light as an ash speck,

I'm yet to pierce
this last forest of life
with a knitting pin,

as the embroidered lane
back to the mountain
of my nest is a cobweb thread
into my tireless soles.